Sherlock Alphabet Drabbles
by captainholmes
Summary: A collection of drabbles, one for every letter of the alphabet. Multiple pairings, drabbles of post and pre-Reichenbach Fall nature. Rated T for safety.


_**A/N: Hullo again! :D This is the Sherlock version of my POI Alphabet Drabbles. They will be no longer than 1,000 words in total and will have various ships throughout, so please don't be upset. Johnlock is my OTP but please, give Bluebell/Sherlock a chance.**_

_**((that was a joke before someone looks through these for an image of Benedict cuddling with a rabbit which I have to admit sounds fabulous))**_

_**This fic is John/Anthea, nothing too drastic. I suppose Johnlock as well but nothing more than friendship.**_

**A is for Anthea**

****"John."

John whipped his head off the sofa dramatically, his eyes still blurred from deep sleep. He wasn't sure where he was at first, but for some reason he felt safe. His neck was stiff and he felt cold even though there was a blanket strewn round him and a soft pillow under his head. He blinked a few times in the soft light of Mycroft's study, taking in his surroundings as if his eyes were deceiving him. Anthea was perched on a chair across from him, the red leather cracking as she crossed her long legs. She had a tablet in her hand, swiping through something or other, but not really paying attention to what she was doing. She was more worried about the doctor lying on the sofa in front of her. "You're awake. Mycroft told me you might sleep in."

"Sleep in?" He ran his hand through his hair, scrunching his eyes up momentarily in an attempt to regain his full vision and lifting his arm so he could glance at his watch. It had already gone afternoon. "That couldn't be right. We always- I always rise at 9am." He said the last sentence through clenched teeth, silently swearing at himself for letting the word slip. There was no we anymore. Sherlock had been gone for 3 months, 5 days and approximately 15 hours, give or take a few minutes. John rose at 9am, John made breakfast, John updated some stupid thing on the stupid blog about his stupid, boring day. John fetched the shopping, John went to work, John went to the bar to drink away his feelings.

"Yes, so I hear," Anthea said carefully, measuring her words. She chose to ignore his slip up. "But Mycroft suggested I give you something...a little stronger than what you were already drinking." Already drinking? John shook his head. He wasn't drinking last night. He had no recollection of it, no memory of it ever happening. Last night was a blur to him, a grey, drab blur. He looked to her, confused. She sighed, unwilling to elaborate, but eventually she gave in. She placed the tablet on the ornate side table and turned to him. "You went to the bar, John. Like you always do. Except Mycroft had me tail you this time. And believe me, you were a mess." John's expression slowly went from confusion to realisation. He sank further into the sofa. He could remember some of last night.

They came in short bursts of memory; drinking on his own at first, then joined by an old friend. Some media party coming in, sitting at a table away from the counter. First of all they talked and laughed. John drowned out their happy times with a pint. Then they whispered. They whispered about John, what had become of him. He gulped down his drink. Then they whispered about Moriarty. He paid for two more. Then they did some more whispering, this time about Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective who was stupid enough to jump off a building. He never got to drink those two more, because he was on his feet somehow. Somehow yelling. Somehow being dragged off one of the reporters by his old friend whose name he couldn't recall, a woman talking calmly in the background. Anthea. He was hauled into a taxi. He was sobbing. She was holding him, telling him it would be alright. He was believing her.

The next thing he knew, he was here. He looked up to Anthea, her soft eyes and her cool yet concerned face, nervously playing with her hands. She was worried for him. Hell, they all were. Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, even Lestrade. He was stuck in a hole he refused to get out of. It was like he liked destroying himself. He didn't, there just wasn't any other option. Except, of course, being held by a beautiful woman at 11PM as you sob into her designer dress. John rubbed his head, then his eyes, then his whole face, until his image focused completely. He managed a small smile.

"I'm going to ignore the fact that you drugged me," he said, standing up and shaking the stiff feeling from him. He was still in his clothes from last night. Then again, asking her to change him probably would've been a step too far. Probably would have resulted in a slap to the face. "And I'm going to thank you for being there when I needed it most. Send Mycroft my thanks, too." He headed for the door, only able to muster a small smile, but she knew that he meant more than he could say or express. She smiled back at him as he passed. Then he was gone. Her phone buzzed as soon as John left and she took it out immediately, surveying the screen first with a scowl, then a grin.

_Are you dating him yet, then? MH_

She grinned, her manicured fingers tapping away furiously.

_Now, now, why would you be interested in that?_

_Most relationships start out with a kiss, you know. MH_

Her smile widened then and she typed so fast her reply was almost immediate.

_Then we must already be in a relationship._

Of course, she would never tell John about that drunken liplock on the plush grey seats of Mycroft's car that he must have forgotten. Perhaps maybe if it happened again when he was sober, she'd be a little more satisfied. But then, she always was a mysterious one, that Anthea.

_**A/N: These will get better, I promise!**_


End file.
